How Dean, kickass Guardian Angel, and Sam, his charge, saved the world
by gwevyan
Summary: Dean liked the guardian angel gig. Gabriel made him a kick-ass vessel, and his charges never needed more than an occasional glance. But those jobs were just a warm-up: for some reason Sammy Winchester's got Heaven and Hell after him, he's too often left all alone, and he refuses to believe that Dean's NOT as cuddly as a teddy bear. Castiel's welcome to stop laughing any time now.
1. Chapter 1

Dean squatted down on the carpet, old leather boots creaking slightly, and glared. "Those are part a part of history. Those are a symbol of your much-loved freedom to move. Those are a part of one of you little mud monkeys' very few, very awesome moments of genius. Those are not chew toys."

Sam blinked wide hazel-brown eyes, gave him a big happy-baby smile with all two and a half teeth on show, and shoved the car keys back in his mouth.

"They're dirty," Dean tried. "All full of pocket germs and ignition grease."

Sam gnawed away happily, soothing his sore gums on the cold hard metal.

"Come on, dude. I can conjure up anything and everything in the universe for you to rub your molars on," Dean reminded him. "D'you want a giraffe with a rubber neck? One of those rawhide things they give bitey dogs?"

Sam cooed wetly at him around the keys. Dean sighed and shifted to sit next to Sam rather than across from him and leaned his back against the side of one musty old motel bed.

"At least you got good taste, kid," he allowed, and patted a hand gently on Sam's wispy mop of baby-soft brown hair.

Sam squealed at his touch and giggled delightedly, all inexplicable joy and chubby-cheeked dimples. Dean couldn't help smiling back.

~""~""~""~

He hadn't meant to stay with Sam. Yeah, sure, he'd stay, in an invisible, intangible, purely metaphysical sense- tuned in to baby Sammy's emotions and surroundings and only appearing when something was wrong. Except just a few hours after Dean knelt beside Sam in the back of John's car and briefly touched the boy's forehead to give him restful sleep before zapping away, he was called back into a dark motel room.

Absence of light doesn't mean much when you don't naturally rely on light waves to "see" anything. Dean peered around the room, muscles tense, trying to locate the source of the danger. It smelled of smoke, probably from John's clothes. And whiskey- probably from John, who lay snoring through the sleep of the seriously drunk on the queen bed. There was no cradle or cot, so where was Sam?

A distressed whimper made itself heard over the chainsaw rumbling of John's snores. Dean picked his way quickly towards the sound and knelt down on the carpet next to a navy blue duffle bag that had been set against the wall. Bright, wet hazel eyes peered out at him from the open zip.

Dean reached in and smoothed down Sam's little wisps of dark hair. John had probably figured the soft confines a duffle bag on the floor was safer than letting Sam sleep on a bed where he might fall off or get squashed, but the kid clearly wasn't happy about it. The bag smelled like tennis shoes and didn't offer any protection from the hard floor, and the room was too cold to have left Sam in a thin jersey onesie with no socks and just a small cotton crib blanket. Dean sighed and reached in to lift the boy up to his warm chest.

"First things first," he muttered, and zapped a pair of socks onto Sam's cold little feet. Then he thought up a green and white fleece blanket with little owls printed on it to wrap Sam up in, and a warmed bottle to hold to Sam's mouth, and lowered himself down carefully into the chair across from John's bed. The baby in his arms sucked at the bottle in sleepy contentment, and Dean settled in to wait. He'd lay Sam back in the duffle bag as soon as John started to stir. Maybe he could even slip the blanket in there, too; John wasn't really in a state to notice randomly appearing baby bedding.

~""~""~

Sam was an easy baby, for the most part. Not as easy as John thought, because whenever Sam fussed Dean was there to give him a quick little bounce or back rub while the older Winchester wasn't watching, but easy enough. He liked cuddles and apple sauce and to turn the pages while he was read to, and he didn't like building blocks because they clattered when the towers collapsed and it startled him if a piece hit him as it fell. He slept deeply through the night so long as Dean kept a wing over him and tended to wake only once or twice for the warm bottle Dean always had ready but John always forgot to prepare. John was a heavy sleeper, anyway, so he rarely woke to Sam's cries- but Dean didn't mind. The lack of an unknowing audience just made it easier for him to hold Sammy to his chest and sing him back to sleep.

And Sam didn't mind baths when Dean was the one giving them- which was usually the case; John seemed to think a baby boy allowed free reign of a cheap hotel room stayed clean on his own, and only needed a quick sponge bath every few days or so. Sam didn't mind sponge baths themselves, but John didn't use bath toys, and he wasn't careful about washing Sam's hair like Dean was. Dean liked Sam's hair. John used the same cheap shampoo he used for himself but it dried out the soft strands and stung Sam's eyes because he always refused to close them, so Dean used a concoction made by one of his 'nest-mates'- an angel he'd matured with who eventually became a guard rather than a guardian, but kept a strange affinity for bees and birds and plants.

"It makes him smell like a girl," Dean complained for what felt like the hundredth time. "Can't you put it together without all the flowery shit?"

Castiel merely gazed down at Sam with something a little softer than his usual impassive expression. "The fragrances you are noticing are produced by the best combination of herbs and plants I could devise that would clean his hair and scalp but not make him ill should he consume it or hurt his eyes should it get in them. Those were the criteria you gave me. If I take away the ingredients that give it fragrance I would be taking away the ingredients that make his hair soft and strong."

Dean grumbled but didn't say anything more; it was an old argument, after all, and if he was totally honest (which he only was with Sam), he didn't mind the smell so much. It made the kid smell like a wild garden after a light summer rain. The thin wet tendrils of Sam's hair curled around his fingers as he gently rubbed Castiel's oils into Sam's scalp, then loosened as he covered the boy's wide open eyes with one hand and poured a coffee mug of warm water over to rinse with the other.

"There we are," he said, setting the cup aside and grabbing Sam under the arms to heft him up to eye level. "One baby, without dirt or gross carpet gunk. Cas, throw us a towel."

Castiel took the soft blue towel Dean had snapped up earlier and wrapped it carefully around the squirming little body. Sam gurgled and bubbled. He liked Castiel well enough, but he'd learned that baths always meant cuddles afterwards when Dean swaddled him up in a towel and a blanket and wrapped the boy in his arms until his hair was all dry. Sam liked cuddles and warmth, and Dean tended to run warm. He didn't know if it was just one of those things, or if his angelic grace was burning tangibly under the thin skin of the homemade vessel Gabriel had cooked up for him one weekend, but perpetually warm hands meant Sammy never shied away from his touch so Dean didn't bother thinking about it too hard.

"Do you need anything before I return?" Castiel asked, rubbing the towel through one last pass over Sam's head before folding it carefully and setting it on the counter.

"Nah," Dean said, winding Sam's blanket around him in a practiced one-handed move and settling the contented baby in the crook of his arm. "You gotta go so soon though? Winchester set Sammy in the playpen with his toys and a bowl of cheerios before he left so I figure he'll be gone all afternoon. We got time to let the kid air-dry and watch TV for a while before he gets back."


	2. Chapter 2

John learned in the Marines how to play cards and pool for quick cash, and after the fire that took his wife he quickly learned how long a stolen credit card could be used. But in the spring of Sam's first birthday John hadn't yet honed these skills to perfection, and sometimes the family ran painfully low on cash. Fuel, ammunition, salt, lighter fluid, and diapers were always at the top of the shopping list. When funds were low, anything else had to be cut back or cut out.

"Here comes the airplane! Zoooom." Dean made buzzing sounds and swooped a spoonful of vegetable mush towards Sam's grinning mouth. "Aaaaand…incoming! Landing strip clear-" he gently pressed one finger on Sammy's chin to open the boy's mouth- "and down she comes." Dean deposited the spoon in Sam's mouth. The toddler smacked his lips and giggled.

"I do not understand why it is necessary to associate his food with vehicles," Castiel said with a frown, hands- unusually- tucked deep in his pockets. He obviously felt uncomfortable and awkward without his bulky trenchcoat, but Sam had spat his first mouthful of food a pretty impressive distance across the table and splattered Castiel's chest with green goo. Even Grace couldn't do much about baby spit with spinach, so the coat was sponged clean and drying over the back of a chair.

Dean sighed. "You wanna try?" he asked, one eyebrow raised. "Poor kid's so used to that cheap grocery store crap his dad keeps feeding him he barely recognizes this stuff you're making him as something to eat. At least this way he's willing to swallow it."

"What does his father think of Sam's diminished appetite? Presumably he eats less of the food his father offers him, now that you are feeding him full meals of this formula."

"If he thinks anything he's probably happy," Dean sneered, lining up another spoonful of mush and soaring it into Sammy's mouth. "Less appetite means less food he has to buy." Cas nodded, and Dean turned his full attention back to his charge. "Not that the stuff he buys is really food, huh, Sammy? Nuh-uh. No canned nutrition-free cat-food-style crap for my baby boy. No way Jose. You like this stuff way better, don't ya, Sammy? Huh? You like all this- Cas, what exactly is this stuff?"

"A highly nutritious and easily digested combination of fruits, vegetables, and herbs from the untainted gardens of Heaven and Earth," Castiel informed him gravely.

"Yeah, you like all this mushy peaches and pears and rabbit food Cas is bottling up for you, don't ya, Sammy boy?"

Sam gurgled and smiled happily, just like he always did when Dean talked to him and used his name. He opened his mouth wide and made a clumsy grab for the spoon. "De!"

Castiel's eyes widened. "Dean. I believe he is trying to communicate."

Dean twisted in his seat and raised an eyebrow. "Uh...yeah, Cas, that's what people do when they talk."

Castiel huffed a short breath through his nose impatiently. "His vocalizations have primarily consisted of random sounds and syllables. That was the fourth time in the last ten minutes that Sam has made the sound, 'De.'"

Dean turned back to Sam and zoomed another bite into the boy's open mouth, gaze intent on Sam's grabby little hands so he didn't have to look at his friend. "Yeah, well," he said casually. "He's not really doing 'n' yet, is he? 'De' is as far as he can get right now."

"De," Sam said again, as if to demonstrate. Dean scooped up some more mush and let Sam wrap his chubby fingers around the spoon, too.

"That's right, Sammy boy, I'm Dean, the one who's gonna throw this health-nut crap out the window and teach you all about cheeseburgers and onion rings as soon as you're a little bigger." Dean grinned at his boy. Sam had started making 'd' sounds over the last few weeks, and both John and Dean had figured he was gearing up to "daddy." But over the last few days the stuttered "duh"s had turned into "dee"s, and while John still expected a "daddy" any time now, Dean knew exactly who the kid was calling out to.

"He is attempting to say your name?" Castiel asked slowly, as if to clarify something he found very important. Probably did, fluffy-headed freak.

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, why not?"

"He has not yet made any indication of addressing his father, has he?"

Dean shrugged again, now trying to gently wrestle the empty spoon out of Sam's grasp. John had managed to scrounge up an old collapsible high chair from somewhere and brought it into the latest hotel, which admittedly made feeding Sam a hell of a lot easier than when he tried to do it holding the squirmy baby in his lap (he'd been around for a long time, okay? Sometimes he forgot about some of the relatively newer inventions), but the legs were a little uneven and Dean didn't want to rock the chair too much in case the whole thing fell apart. "John doesn't talk to him as much as I do. So what?"

"Dean," Cas began, in an even lower voice than usual. "You are aware of the implications-"

"De!" Sam suddenly squealed, then clamped his lips shut.

"No more? You all done?" Dean asked, grateful for the interruption. Sam threw his hands over his mouth. "Okay, okay. Look, I'm putting the spoon away. All done, right?"

Sam let his hands drop and opened his mouth again, well trained for what came next- only with Dean, as John had never witnessed Sam with teething pain and didn't think anything needed to be done, because Dean had never allowed Sam to suffer much teething pain at all.

"Good boy," Dean praised, and picked up the piece of gauze he had ready. "That's it, Sammy. Real quick, just like always. There we go." He kept up a steady murmur as he gently rubbed the gauze over Sam's gums, cleaning his few tiny teeth at the front and massaging his sore gums at the back.

"You could just clean his mouth and heal his gums with the Grace of God," Castiel pointed out. He usually questioned Dean's need to do things the long way- changing Sam's diapers by hand instead of just zapping them clean, singing and rocking him to sleep instead of just touching his forehead and putting him deep into rest. But Dean liked doing these things by hand- not that he'd ever tell Cas, obviously, but still. Changing Sam's diapers was gross, sure, but it meant laying the kid out on the carpet and tickling his pudgy belly so he'd stay on his back and watching him squirm and shriek with glee as Dean's long fingers dug gently into his ribs and armpits. And Sammy was kinda cute when he snuggled into Dean's arms and yawned his little mouth wide open and cooed and mumbled along with whatever Metallica song Dean was using as a lullaby. Those tiny little fingers would always wrap tight around his shirt and the baby would slowly slip into sleep, warm and trusting and totally at peace.

"Yeah, I could," Dean told Castiel. "But then how will he learn to brush his teeth, huh? I can't be around twice a day to zap his mouth free of cavities and shit."

"Ah."

"Uh-huh." Dean nodded in satisfaction and threw the gauze into the trash, then lifted Sam out of his lap and set him on the floor. He conjured up a pile of thick paper and bowls of paint. "Go make a mess, Sammy."

Sam gurgled delightedly and smacked his hands into the paint.

Dean smiled at the kid's easy joy and leaned back in his seat.

When John switched from buying standard, moderately healthy baby food to the cheapest stuff gas stations offered, Dean started inspecting the bags every time he bought groceries to make sure the older Winchester wasn't skimping on anything else of Sammy's. John tended to buy hunting gear first, human gear second; so when they got stuck in a small down with no gambling action and few credit cards in the wallet, and John walked into the motel room with a new stash of ammunition and a second-hand Fed-style suit, Dean felt some distinctly un-angelic anger. There was no way John could have afforded all that and a week in this dump of a motel without sacrificing something.

Sure enough, he was right, and he found out just how badly right when John changed Sam's diaper that evening.

Dean watched over John's shoulder, silently muttering insults about John's technique ("Sam hates it when you pull the tabs that tight, it cuts into his belly cuz he likes to roll up like a bug and suck on his toes, not like youever bother cleaning his toes so he doesn't suck down something gross. Gonna have to loosen that as soon as his back's turned, what a fucking idiot…."), and frowned when John put the new diaper on without rubbing Sam's sensitive skin with cream first.

"Sorry, Sammy," John muttered. "But ammo's gotta come first, you know that, right? Gotta cut out anything else we can. Anyway, you probably don't even need that stuff anymore."

Sam furrowed his brow and shifted discontentedly. "De," he said unhappily.

John smiled and leaned over the kid. "That's right, Sammy, it's your daddy. Can you say 'daddy?'"

"De," Sam said louder.

"Come on, Sam," John encouraged. "Say 'daddy.'"

Sam wriggled harder. "De!" he shouted insistently.

John scowled and sat back on his heels. "Come on, Sam, what would Mary think if she saw you? A year old and you can't say a single word, can't even say the name of the guy who takes care of you?"

"He is saying the name of the guy who takes care of him, you dick," Dean snapped, though John couldn't hear him. "Who the hell gets mad at their kid for not talking right on schedule, anyway?"

John pushed himself to his feet and started setting up the playpen around Sam, dropping in a couple pillows, a blanket, a sippy cup of milk, and the few toys the kid had. Well, that John thought the kid had. Dean had whole piles of cool toys he gave Sam when John wasn't watching and took away again when he was. Even Cas had turned up one day, not long after John accidentally dropped Sam's teddy in an oily puddle and had to throw it away, with a stuffed toy so badly knitted and unidentifiable that Dean was sure the soldier angel had made it himself, despite stoic insistence to the contrary.

"I gotta go, Sammy," John said with a sigh. "There's some witch out here who might be able to give me some information. Be a good boy. I'll be back as soon as I can." He leaned into the playpen and kissed the top of Sam's fluffy head, and was gone.

There was a pause as Sam stared curiously at the door and Dean breathed slowly in and out, trying to calm himself down. It didn't work.

"Son of a bitch," he swore loudly.

Sam giggled, and reached his arms up. "De!"


	3. Chapter 3

It didn't take long for Sammy's delicate, sensitive skin to erupt with rash under the harsh, cheap diapers. Dean was torn between healing it immediately, because he couldn't stand to see Sam in pain, and leaving the rash to fester, so John could see what his choices were doing to the poor baby. In the end, he decided to leave it- after all, it'd look suspicious if the rash suddenly healed up all on its own. But leaving the rash didn't mean he had to leave Sam with the pain.

"Angel of God, my nestmate not-so-dear, to whom His love entrusts a shiny sword, get down here."

A flutter announced Castiel's arrival on the sidewalk outside Sam's motel room. "That's not how the prayer goes," he said with a frown. "Why are we outside?"

"Because Winchester Senior's in there and I didn't want you to land on him."

Castiel's wings rustled defensively. "That was only once," he said, voice as close to a whine as it ever got. "He moved at the precise moment that I transported to stand next to him."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Doesn't change the fact that you left everybody scrambling, trying to figure out how to explain a guy getting crushed from above while standing in the middle of a street. Who came up with that stupid tortoise and eagle story, anyway?"

"Aeschylus' guardian was given final responsibility for deciding on a story. I do not believe he has had a charge since." Castiel sounded a little guilty about that, Dean thought. Poor guy. He moved along.

"Right, so, I need you to make me some stuff to take care of Sammy's diaper rash without actually getting rid of it," he said.

Castiel frowned again. "I am a soldier," he reminded Dean. "Heaven has many dedicated healers and physicians who could make these things for you."

"Yeah, but they're all boring and wanna call me Hesedinel," Dean moaned. "Anyway, you like Sammy and Sammy likes you and you're not doing anything. You don't want him to suffer just so you can spend five extra minutes standing guard at the completely impenetrable gates of Heaven, do you?"

Cas was trying to look impassive and disapproving, but Dean could see him weakening.

"Come on," Dean wheedled. "His butt's all red and stinging. Poor little guy, huh? And I can't straight-out heal it or his dad will freak. Just go do your flower power fairy thing, okay?"

Castiel sighed. "I do not believe I would be following God's will if I were leave Sam in pain when it is within my power to ease his suffering," he allowed.

"There ya go," Dean beamed, slapping his unwitting minion on the shoulder. Cas cringed and shied away, then vanished.

~""~""~""~

Cas' salve was a smooth white cream that smelled faintly of the kind of herbs and flowers you'd find in medicinal gardens. Which was probably right, Dean figured, given that it seemed to cool Sam's hot, blotchy skin and soothe the pain right away. He quickly applied a first coat that night when John took a shower, briskly laying Sam out on the floor and yanking down his diaper (wet, as usual with John, who was apparently unable to smell as well as unable to understand Sam's obviously unhappy cries) to expose the angry red rash. Sam fidgeted miserably until Dean used his Grace to instantly put the poor baby on a new diaper.

"Here ya go, little guy," Dean murmured, scooping up some of the cream and gently rubbing it into Sam's lower half. "This'll make it all better, baby boy. This is from Uncle Cas, see? His stuff is always good, huh?"

Sure enough, a moment later the rash was just as red but nowhere near as hot, and Sam was wriggling with his usual excited anticipation of Dean's tickling fingers. "De," he bubbled happily.

"Good boy," Dean smiled. "Let's get you back in your cage before John comes out, huh? Don't worry, I'm gonna stay." He picked Sam up and stepped over the wall of the pen, settling cross-legged on the floor. Sam's rash was worse on his backside than his front so he lay Sam down on his belly, rubbing firm strokes up and down his back to both put him to sleep and keep him off his sensitive bottom.

"Soldier angel from Heaven so bright, not really watching beside me or leading me anywhere, keep your wings to yourself but nice one on the cream. And if you wanna sing lullabies, now's the time."

Cas didn't come, but Dean didn't really expect him to. John soon shut off the water and slouched out of the bathroom, staying awake long enough only to lay Sam on his back in the second twin bed, bolster the baby with pillows so he wouldn't roll off, kiss the boy's forehead, shut off the lights, and crash into his own bed. He was snoring within minutes.

Dean climbed carefully out of the playpen and set the pillows back against the headboard of Sam's bed and lay down, moving Sam to rest face down as a warm weight on his angel's chest.

"De," Sam mumbled, and nestled forward to breathe hot, wet puffs of air into Dean's neck as his little fists grasped his gray flannel shirt.

Dean twisted to press a kiss on Sam's head. "G'night, Sammy," he murmured. He tucked the fleece owl blanket (John had kept and never questioned it, after all) around his baby and rested one broad hand on Sam's back to keep him in place over his heart, feeling the beats synchronize and his Grace rise warmly in and around both of them at the feel of his God-given charge held so close and safe, almost like they had been before Sam's bright little soul came down to earth. He settled in for the night.

* * *

If anyone's interested, the prayers Dean bastardizes are:  
Angel of God, my guardian dear,  
To whom His love entrusts me here,  
Ever this night/day be at my side,  
To light and guard, to rule and guide.  
And: Guardian angel from Heaven so bright,  
Watching beside me to lead me aright,  
Fold your wings round me and guard me with love,  
Softly sing songs to me of Heaven above.  
No guarantees Dean or Castiel will show up in response to either prayer (I've tried- no luck).


	4. Chapter 4

They were going to South Dakota- somebody named Bobby who John had apparently met or spoken to before. Winchester senior had been muttering under his breath the last day or two about leads, no leads, what the fuck is Aramaic, just stop fucking crying Sammy let Bobby deal with 'im….

So. South Dakota.

They were still low on- or rather, out of- cash, though, so the two-day drive was a rough one_. It should've been three days_, Dean thought sourly, slouched in the cramped back seat with his long legs stretched awkwardly to the opposite side so he could face Sam's car seat. _Sammy needs changing and feeding more than every five hundred miles, you dick._ But John seemed determined to get the trip over with as soon as possible, so Dean secretly snapped the poor kid into a clean diaper whenever Sam wriggled uncomfortably. John was too distracted by the road to notice Sam's startled expression in the rear-view mirror.

"Damn, Sammy. How does one tiny little thing make so much stink?" Dean muttered, yanking his t-shirt up over his nose as he reached out. The smell was obviously bothering the boy, too; he was wrinkling his little button nose and pale little eyebrows and kicking his feet unhappily. "Yeah, I know. You ready for this? Three, two, one-"

Sam's eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped open into a small O. A tricky little application of Grace, honed into non-standard directness by nights of drinking games with the Archangel Gabriel, plopped Sam into a clean, soft cloth diaper (gentler on his tender skin than the disposables, especially during the long car ride) and slicked Castiel's ointment over the remaining rash. "De," he cooed reverently.

Dean grinned smugly. "Uh-huh. Now, whaddaya say? Yellow mash a la Cas, or green mash a la Cas?"

Sam wriggled his toes and smiled. "De!"

"You sticking those stinky feet out at me? Huh? Let's go with green." Dean pulled the jar of green mash from his battered leather shoulder bag (_not_ a man bag, okay? And the next angel who so much as _thought_ those words would get fried in holy oil), unscrewed the top, and fished a toddler-sized spoon from a side pocket.

This part was a little tricky, too. John didn't glance back in the mirror all that often- certainly not as often as Dean thought he should, considering he had a baby in the back seat, and all- but he'd probably notice Sam opening and closing his mouth like a fish for the half hour it usually took to get a full serving of food down him, so Dean perfected a way of slipping the spoon all the way into Sammy's mouth and letting him suck the mush off the spoon as his angel slowly pulled the spoon back out from between his pressed lips. The growing boy still reached out to hold the spoon himself, but waving hands were nothing to cause suspicion. He might not be able to get through the whole jar, but it'd last them 'til the next time Winchester Senior decided to take over.

~""~""~""~

"You okay back there, Sammy?" John asked, twisting in the front seat to look over his shoulder.

"No thanks to you," Dean muttered sullenly.

"De!" Sam squealed happily.

Dean glanced at him. "You really think it's funny when I talk back to your daddy, huh?"

"Sorry, kid, but we don't have the cash for a motel tonight. You don't mind sleeping in the truck stop tonight, do ya?" John mumbled, already pulling the car into a parking space and killing the headlights.

Dean bolted up straight, nearly smacking his head on the low roof. "What the hell do you mean, sleeping in the truck stop? You can't make a baby sleep in a car! We're up in the Rockies! It still gets freezing around here at night!"

"Hang on, Sammy, just gonna get your blanket…." John climbed out of the car and went around to the trunk. There was a soft squeaking as he popped it open, then a dull thud as he slammed it shut again. Dean watched with narrowed eyes as the older Winchester opened the door next to Sam and carefully draped his owlet blanket over him, tucking the soft fleece into the car seat.

"Yeah, and what were you gonna use if I hadn't given you that, huh?" Dean sneered. "And why are you covering him up before you've fed him? He's supposed to be grabbing at the spoon, you idiot, that's how he works on his motor skills!"

"There we go," John muttered, pressing the blankets tightly under Sam's sides and shoulders. Sam squirmed uncomfortably and wrinkled up his forehead, kicking his feet under the blanket. "There we go. That's better. Now you can't yank the spoon out of my hand and make a mess, can you, boy?"

Dean stared. "Seriously? Did you actually learn anything about kids when you decided to have one, or did you think it was gonna be like getting a dog? Just feed it and pet it now and then and call it good, figure it'll grow up right on instinct?"

John pulled a can of cheap, generic baby food out of his pocket- the kind that Dean thought looked like cat food, and probably tasted just as bad, judging by the way Sam's mouth immediately pursed and he tried to push back in his car seat when John held a spoonful up to his mouth.

"Come on, Sammy," John groaned. "Don't get picky now."

"_Picky?" _Dean scoffed. "I'm so sorry your son is too _picky_ to go for cold reconstituted old vegetable stems now that he's gotten used to eating formula of the finest toddler-safe foods on Heaven and Earth."

John tried to push the spoon between Sam's pressed lips. Sam grumbled and shook his head back and forth, kicking his heels. "De," he grumbled.

John leaned in. "Yeah, Sammy, Daddy's here with dinner. You gonna open up for me?" He tried shoving the spoon in again, but Sam wrenched his head sideways and ended up with a smear of minced mush all over his cheek.

"Sam!" John snapped. He set the can down on the car floor and used a free corner of Sam's blanket to roughly scrub at his face. "Fine. You're not hungry, you don't have to eat. We'll try again in the morning." He slammed the car door shut so loudly that Sam jumped in his car seat and let out a soft whimper, then stalked around to the front, threw himself across the front bench, and locked the doors. The car was silent for a tense ten minutes while Dean gently petted Sam's head to keep him quiet and John twisted around in the front, trying to get comfortable. Finally, John started snoring, and Dean let out a breath he didn't know he'd held.

"Alright, Sammy," he breathed, and peered over the seat backs to make sure John really was deeply asleep. Reassured, Dean carefully pulled Sammy out of constraints and settled the boy in a comfortable face-down sprawl across his lap. Sam immediately took advantage of his new freedom to fling out his limbs.

"De?" Sam gurgled. There was still a little wrinkle between his eyebrows, so Dean smiled.

"That's right, baby boy. Stretch out those arms and legs, huh? 'S been a long day," he encouraged, rubbing soothing circles into Sam's back and hips. After John's fiasco Dean wasn't really surprised to find that Sammy didn't seem interested in eating, so when the toddler stopped wriggling around, he hauled his baby up to rest easy on his chest, tucked the owlet blanket in carefully, and wrapped his arms around the kid's back to hold in the warmth. Sam nestled his head down into the hollow of Dean's shoulder, gave a few wet sighs, and settled easily into sleep, one hand clutching his blanket and the other curled tightly into Dean's jacket. Dean kept a sharp watch out the window through the night, gently finger-combing Sam's curls whenever he woke up enough to fuss.

They'd see about this Bobby Singer tomorrow. And John, Dean thought to himself as Sam sighed out a soft _"De, De, De" _in his sleep and smacked his dry lips, was just about out of chances.


	5. Chapter 5

First, thanks so much for all the well-wishes, everyone! Things are good :) And I'm making myself feel better with a new, entirely related tumblr: SchoolofWinchester. Check it out.

Second: Ugh. Had a hard time getting in the groove on this one, but I tried and tried and couldn't make it flow better so I'm posting anyway. Seriously, do you know how hard it is to write Dean when Sam isn't a talking, active character? I know we all joke and write and gif about them being two halves of a whole, but honestly, you don't know until you try to write one of them entirely alone- not just a story with only one of them because the other is somewhere else or dead or whatever, but just one because there only _is_ one. Their characters just don't work without each other. Dean can't fully be _Dean_ without Sam there as the catalyst to _make _him be Dean.

And that's why they're soulmates, folks.

* * *

Bobby Singer was going to be trouble; Dean knew it the moment they climbed out of the car.

John pulled the car to a stop in front of a battered old house in the middle of a dusty junk yard. He was in a pretty good mood, as Sam had been hungry enough before they set off at five am that morning to reluctantly go ahead and choke down some of the canned food with minimal complaining. The door up on the front porch opened before John was all the way out of the car.

"'Bout time," a heavy-set man in dirty jeans and a blue plaid shirt said gruffly as he stepped outside. "Was beginning to think you'd got lost."

"Nah, just Sam being fussy this morning," John replied, and moved forwards as the man walked down the stairs to shake hands. "Thanks for letting me bring him, Singer. I know you're not used to having a baby around but I don't really have anywhere to leave him."

"Well, bring 'im inside," Singer said. "I still got an old puppy gate so I took most of the stuff out of one of the spare rooms and put the gate in the door. He'll be safe in there."

"Thanks," John said, this time with genuine gratitude in his voice. Dean sighed, rubbing Sam's wispy hair between his fingers as Sam stared, enthralled, at the new man. He wanted to resent John for sounding so enthusiastic at the chance to put his baby down in a room and forget about him for a while without feeling at least a little guilty like he did at the motels, but he couldn't- not completely, anyway. It was still a dickish move, but John never expected to be a single dad, after all. Hell, he probably figured he wouldn't be much a part of Sammy's life until the kid was big enough to play catch. Even good, normal parents wanted a little break now and then.

"I'll never want a break from you," he told Sam. Sam turned with big brown eyes, and blew a spit bubble.

John opened the passenger door and reached in to unclip Sam from his car seat and haul him out. Dean scrambled out after him. "How do you never notice the clips are different?" he asked the man for what felt like the hundredth time. "Seriously. You put your kid in his car seat and strap him in. You come back to take him out, and the straps are all in different places. The _right_ places. How have you never noticed that?"

John didn't answer, of course. He boosted Sam up in his arms and turned back to Singer. "This is my son Sam," he said, smiling wearily. "He was kinda cranky last night and this morning, so don't worry about it if he doesn't take to you right away. He's an easy going kid and he's usually pretty quiet."

"Because I _keep_ him quiet, you moron," Dean muttered sullenly, leaning back against the car with his hands in his pockets so he wouldn't be too tempted to reach out and snatch Sam back to where he belonged.

Then he straightened abruptly as Singer's eyes slid right past Sammy to where Dean was standing. Dean threw a hand behind his back, reaching for his sword. "Christo," he snapped quickly.

Singer didn't so much as flinch, and his eyes flicked back to where Sam clung awkwardly to his father with one hand while the other thumb slid into his mouth.

"Well, hi there, Sammy," Singer said, a smile just visible under his rough beard.

Dean watched closely as Singer reached out and jokingly shook Sam's saliva-covered hand with two big fingers. He was probably only a little older than John, maybe even the same age or a little younger if he smoked. He definitely spent a lot of time outside, judging by the weather-beaten face. He wore a ratty old clothes and a mangy old ball cap and didn't let off any feel of demon or magic, so Dean relaxed slightly. Maybe the guy was just a little psychic or something, and had felt Dean's angelic presence? That sort of thing used to be common enough, but he hadn't come across anyone so sensitive in a long time.

Well. Except in that one nunnery, during that dare Gabriel got from some satyr named Giorgio that turned out to be a two-man job so he dragged Dean along…. But they don't talk about that.

Still unsettled and wary, his feathers ruffled and his wings itching to come out, Dean followed Singer, Winchester and Sammy inside the house.

~""~""~""~

The spare room turned out to be an old spare bedroom Singer was clearly using as a sort of library-slash-office, but he'd taken away all the books on the lower shelves and the rolling desk chair, locked the desk drawers, and shifted a sharp-cornered filing cabinet out into the hallway. The long cord for the wall-mounted phone had been taped up high, and the cord for the window blinds had been looped up well out of a toddler's reach. The room was empty save for the heavy desk, the baby-proofed bookcase, a few pillows and worn quilts, a couple tall, sturdy (Dean immediately tested) stacks of cardboard boxes, and a big, thick sheepskin rug that looked rather out of place with the rest of the décor- or rather, lack of- in the house and which Dean suspected Bobby had bought or moved in here just so a little boy wouldn't have to crawl and lie down on the cold wood floor.

Dean reappraised Bobby Singer, and cautiously approved.

There was also a small stack of children's books sitting on the desk. Dean raised an eyebrow, and John must have done the same, because Bobby answered the unasked question with a shrug.

"Got a few things at the library," he said. "I know you probably got heaps of your own but I figured new ones might distract him longer, make him happier about staying in a new house for a while."

"Yeah, Winchester," Dean snapped, pleased that Singer seemed to think pretty well of kids for a guy who didn't have any of his own. "Bet you've got _heaps_ of books for your boy, huh? Your boy who loves turning pages and being read to? Or are you too busy buying Latin dictionaries and folklore stories to spend any time picking out picture books? Or, you know, actually reading them to him?" It was a sore spot for Dean, knowing how utterly elated Sam got every time he snapped up a book and settled Sam down in his lap so he could clumsily turn the pages at Dean's prompting. He giggled delightedly every time Dean growled for the tigers or dragons, and squealed with laughter when Dean bounced him on his lap whenever a character was walking or riding.

John didn't have any kid's books to read to Sam.

John shrugged, setting Sam down on the other side of the closed puppy gate. Sam looked around, his expression confused and a little upset until Dean settled down beside him and stroked his back. "Thanks, but Sam's too young to be reading yet," John said, reaching over and patting Sam's head. "Not even talking yet, really. He says 'Dee' sometimes but I haven't gotten a full 'Daddy' out of him. If he doesn't get going pretty soon I might have to take him into a doctor somewhere, see if he's slow."

Singer blinked a few times, apparently as dumbstruck as Dean. "Huh," he said, finally.

"Be a good boy, Sammy," John told his son, then turned back to the other hunter. "You said you had some background on Yellow-Eyes?"

"...Yeah," Singer said, clearly a little discomfited. "I got a stack of stuff to start with out in the kitchen, mostly mentions we're gonna have to decide on whether they're talking about the right thing or not. Then we can go from there."

John grinned with all his teeth, clearly energized by the thought of finally having some hard information. He started heading over to the kitchen.

"Aren't you gonna-" Bobby started, then stopped himself, and coughed gruffly. "You wanna get Sam's toys and stuff out of the car? I'll start some coffee, have it ready by the time you got him all settled in."

John stared blankly as though Sam actually needing anything hadn't occurred to him. "Yeah, I guess," he shrugged finally. "He's pretty good about keeping himself entertained but he might need a diaper pretty soon."

Dean watched Singer watching John stride back out to the car.

"Idjit," Singer spit under his breath. The scruffy man turned back to Sam and stepped carefully over the puppy gate, unfolded the two quilts and spread them out and placed the pillows on top. "There ya go, Sammy," he said with a smile, squatting down in front of the wide-eyed boy. "Now you have a good place to take a nap. You hungry?"

"De," Sam said seriously.

"Yeah, that's right, Sammy," Dean murmured. "If you're hungry, I'll feed you the good stuff. You don't have to worry about it coming from your daddy again."

Singer looked thoughtful, though. "Dee, huh?" he said, more like he was talking to himself than to Sam. Then he focused again. "Well, I got some cheerios and applesauce and grapes for ya. Even peeled the grapes, 'cus I don't remember how old babies have to be before you can give 'em whole ones. And let me tell you, boy," he said with a mock scowl, gently poking Sam in the belly. Sam giggled and squirmed. "Peelin' all those little grapes was a bigger bitch than smokin' out a nest of ghouls, so you better eat all of 'em up and like 'em!"

Dean couldn't help grinning as Singer carefully tickled Sammy's belly and armpits, a soft smile breaking out under the scroungy beard as the boy shrieked and rolled happily under his broad fingertips. The hunter straightened and toughened right back up again when John returned, but Dean could see the disbelief and traces of anger in his face when all John put in for his kid was the diaper bag, the owlet blanket, a few ragged stuffed toys, and a car-temperature bottle of formula before climbing back over the gate and looking expectantly at his host.

It wasn't just the lack of stuff that was upsetting Singer- Dean could tell by following the way his eyes flicked from the worn out, scratchy, one-eyed teddy bear to the brand new, high quality shoulder holster just showing under John's jacket. Clearly, this hunter's priorities were closer aligned to Dean's than John's. This was good. If Sammy just stayed in a sweet mood and and kept flashing those dimpled, tiny-toothed smiles, maybe Singer's place could end up being some kind of safe house if Dean ever needed to whisk Sam away and didn't want the interference that would surely come if he tried to hide his charge somewhere angel-made. Guardian angels weren't technically supposed to be quite so hands-on, after all. Dean just didn't care about the rules, and Sam was something special.

When Singer and Winchester were settled in the kitchen, deep in discussion over some medieval allegory, Dean threw himself down onto one of the quilts, pulled Sam up to lay high enough on his chest that his idly kicking feet wouldn't come into contact with any important bits of his angel, and picked up one of Singer's books.

"Milton the moose was having a very bad morning…."


	6. Chapter 6

They had been in Sioux Falls for two weeks, and Dean hoped they stayed longer. Singer was definitely alright, even when it came to Sam- and Dean had seriously high standards when it came to trusting people with Sam. Heavenly high. Not even Gabriel got to watch him alone anymore, Archangel though he was, after the time Dean and Cas came back from scoping out John's hired babysitter to find Sam's face, hands, and hair covered in chocolate, sticky sugar syrup, and cake crumbs.

But Singer, Dean decided, was alright. He hadn't actually said anything to John about his parenting skills but he made plenty of snide comments under his breath, often near-exactly echoing Dean- except for the one time he swore impressively at John for setting Sam down on the sofa while he searched for a book in the library, and Sam nearly rolled right off- _would_ have rolled right off, if Dean hadn't lunged forward to corral him at the last second.

Singer went out to several different stores in the first week so that the house was now fully stocked for a year-and-a-bit-year-old boy. Completely ignoring John's protests, he'd bought toys, proper bedding, actual baby soap and shampoo, decent baby food and snacks (though Dean swapped what he could out for Castiel's stuff anyway), and baby-safe foods that he kept chopped up in containers in the fridge. John, when he noticed that Sam seemed hungry between meal times, tended to hand the kid a bottle or an easy bowl of cheerios. Singer would grab one of the containers and hand Sam small pieces of canned pears and peaches, black beans, and shredded bits of cheese and soft chicken.

"It's called protein, Sam," Singer said, the first time he handed Sam a bit of chicken and the boy scrunched up his face at the unfamiliar texture as he chewed. "I'm guessin' you don't get a whole lotta whole food, goin' by the kinda stuff your daddy brought in." Dean had grinned unapologetically at that. "But don't worry, kid, it don't matter if he thinks you gotta have all your teeth before you can chew anything. I'm gonna feed you like a real little man."

On one of the shopping trips he came home with a punnet of blueberries for Sam. Dean remembered that he'd read something, somewhere, sometime that said babies up to 18 months old could choke on blueberries and their skins, so he snapped the punnet out of existance as soon as Singer shut the fridge door. The hunter was confused and snappish about it until he decided he must've left them at the store, and only thought he remembered putting them away.

"Maybe you're just getting old," John suggested.

"Maybe you're just going to bed without dinner tonight," Singer retorted.

John smirked. "Fine. A ghost got into your salted, warded house and stole your blueberries."

"Yep, I think it did," Singer replied, suddenly serene as he leaned back against the old refrigerator. "Well, since I'm old and past it, you better get your young ass out there and check all the salt lines and fence carvings."

He fed Sam banana pieces that afternoon instead, while Dean carefully vetted the rest of the groceries and John stumped irritably around the scrap yard perimeter.

The gruff hunter was big on Sam feeding himself, too, Dean was relieved to see. For the first few days, the three humans ate their meals together with Sam in a sturdy wooden high chair Singer had bought, and John was just as frustrated by Sam's spoon-grabbing and mess-making as he had been in the car. Eventually Singer suggested that he feed Sam while he cooked and John stay in the other room poring over texts.

"It makes more sense this way," Singer reasoned, and John looked too grateful to even put up a pretense of arguing. "You know what you're looking for better than I do, so you might as well keep reading. You can't cook worth a damn so I'll be in the kitchen every time anyway, it don't take any extra effort to feed the kid while I'm doin' it."

It _did_ take extra effort, really, but that's because Singer did it right- so right that Dean didn't mind stepping back and making faces over the man's shoulder while Sam giggled and stuffed pieces of noodles covered in pureed spinach, cheese, and tomatoes into his mouth. Singer didn't mind Sam smearing handfuls of avocado all over his face, and he always handed Sam the spoon, and he offered Sam an open plastic cup of juice to drink as well as a bottle of milk whenever he was eating, no matter how much spilled down Sam's shirt or onto the floor. He always cleaned and changed Sam before calling his father in to dinner, and John didn't seem to be any the wiser.

Singer had taken over bath time from John, too. He wasn't as good as Dean, and he didn't have the toys Sam always liked Dean to snap up, and his baby soaps weren't as good as the ones Cas made, but he _did _have bath toys that he didn't mind Sammy splashing around with, and he used all his hunt-trained concentration and steady hands to keep the shampoo out of Sammy's eyes. He even tickled Sammy's belly before letting him out of the water.

"Wish you could've been his instead," Dean murmured, stroking one finger down the soft curve of Sam's back as the boy lay pillowed on his chest. Singer had bought a crib along with the high chair, but Sam was used to sleeping with Dean, and tried uselessly to climb the bars after being laid down alone. Dean waited until both Singer and John had gone to bed, then lifted his fussy baby out and settled down on the folded quilts on the floor.

"Of course, if you _were_ his, I wouldn't be down here, would I? I'd be out wandering or back upstairs with all the other guardian angels whose charges have perfectly good lives, or I'd be down here trailing around invisible and you'd never know I was here."

Sam blinked slowly at him, then squeezed his eyes shut and nestled his face down into the worn fabric of Dean's t-shirt. Dean sighed again and rubbed slowly up and down Sam's back with his whole hand, fingers and thumb wrapping around the sides of the tiny rib cage.

"Don't hate me for it, Sam, but I'm glad you're not his."

~""~""~""~

Dean had been on earth long enough to see plenty of human kids grow up, so he knew the course of child development pretty well. He also devoured every relevant book he could find whenever John brought Sam to the library with him. So a few days later, when Sam suddenly looked up from playing on the study floor with the soft-sided building blocks Singer had bought him and spotted Dean across the room and immediately hauled himself unsteadily to his feet with the side of the sofa, Dean knew exactly what was about to happen. He set aside the book he'd been surreptitiously reading (why Singer had Japanese comics tucked away in the bookshelves he had no idea, but he wasn't going to pass them up, either), sitting in the opposite corner of shelves from Sam while Singer and John sat together at the desk with their heads down. He opened his arms, grinning.

"Come on, Sammy boy. You wanna come over here with me?"

"De!" Sam giggled happily.

"What's up, Sam?" John asked without looking up. Singer did look, and his eyebrows shot up.

"Might want to turn an eye over at your boy, Winchester," he said, a smile spreading across his face. "Looks like Sammy's about to give us a show."

"Huh?" John twisted in his chair and leaned up over the desk, frowning at Sam. "What's he doing?"

Singer rolled his eyes. "He's tryin' to walk, idjit. Watch."

Sam stuck one foot out like a cartoon character dipping one toe in the water, then wobbled and plopped down on his bottom. He frowned and hauled himself back upright again, stuck the same foot back out, and overbalanced again. He looked up at Dean, lip wobbling a little. "De," he said plaintively.

"Come on, buddy," Dean said encouragingly. "You can do it, I know you can. You wanna come over here? Come sit by me? I know you can take those steps, Sammy."

Sam furrowed his brow in a determined little glare and pulled back up to his feet.

"Good boy, Sam," John called. "Come on, come over here to daddy."

Dean refused to look over at him. Sam only had eyes for his angel, anyway; he wasn't paying his father the slightest bit of attention. "Come on, Sammy," he urged. Then, he remembered something important. "Cas! Castiel, where the hell are you? Whatever you're doing, drop it and get over here! Now!"

There was a soft flutter and Castiel appeared crouched at Dean's side, one arm out as if to shield him from an attack. "What?" he panted. "What is it? What's happened? Where is Sam?"

Dean rolled his eyes and shoved Castiel's arm away. He pointed over at Sam. "Look! I think he's gonna start walking!"

The fight went out of Castiel in an instant and he dropped to sit cross-legged next to Dean, peering intently at the baby staring determinedly their way. Sam suddenly let go of the sofa and wobbled for a long moment, teetering backwards and forwards on his heels and toes. Then he fell to his bottom again.

"Oh, come on, Sam," John groaned. "You almost had it that time! Come on, Sam, come to Daddy!"

Dean, Castiel, and Singer all ignored him and watched Sam closely. "Come on, Sam," Castiel murmured, leaning forward a little more as Sam got back to his feet. "Thank you for calling me, Dean. I am glad not to miss this."

"Well, yeah," Dean shrugged. "I mean, you care about him too."

"De," Sam called softly. He looked apprehensive, but brightened when he spotted Castiel and angled himself more in the other angel's direction.

"When did he start attempting to reach you?" Castiel asked, utterly absorbed in the little boy in front of them.

Dean grinned. "It's exciting, isn't it?" he chuckled, nudging Cas' side. "He just started doing this, like, thirty seconds before I called you. Two ups and downs. You haven't missed anything. He's so gonna make his way over here on his own two feet today, man."

Castiel frowned a little. "Won't John Winchester wonder why his son chose to take his first steps towards a bookcase instead of towards his father?" he asked, eyes not leaving the little boy tilting precariously forward on his toes.

"Nah," Dean scoffed. "He already thinks Sammy's _slow_ or something, remember?"

"De," Sam whined.

"Over here, buddy," Dean called back. "Right here. Look, Cas is here, too."

"Come on, Sam," John said again. "That's right, Daddy's over here. God, look at him, Bobby. He's not even tracking my voice over here. You think he needs glasses or something?"

"Or something, maybe," Singer said slowly.

"Don't listen to the idiots, Sammy, come sit with Castiel and me," he encouraged, opening his arms up for the kind of big squeezy bear hug Sam liked to fall into.

Sam pulled himself to his feet. He let go, tottered a little bit to one side, then put one foot forward to save his balance. He tilted to the other side, and put the other foot forward. Then it was one, two, three unsteady steps straight towards Dean, a beaming, dimpled smile on his face even as the fourth step faltered and he went down.

"That's my boy!" Dean crowed, fist-pumping the air and jostling Castiel. "Way to go, Sammy!"

"Well done, Sam," Cas said warmly.

"De!" Sam squealed, rolling happily on the floor. He stopped on his belly and pushed himself up with his hands, taking two false starts before he made another couple of steps towards Dean and Castiel. This time Dean scooted forward and flopped down on his stomach, getting nose to nose with Sam on the floor so he could carefully tickle the kid's sides and plant a hard kiss on his forehead without John and Singer noticing.

"That's my boy," he growled playfully. "Yeah, you're one awesome little guy, you know that, Sammy? Yes you _are_."

"Good job, Sam," John sighed, and Dean glanced up to see the older Winchester already turning back to the desk. "Maybe next time we'll work on going the right direction."

But Dean wasn't paying any attention to John. He was completely and utterly focused on Singer, who was staring straight back at him.


	7. Chapter 7

With Kappa Taicho's meet'n'greet scene, because her idea was way better than mine XD Thanks!

* * *

"I think that calls for a celebration," Singer said finally, turning his eyes away to look back at John.

If Dean had needed to breathe, he'd've been gasping. He wanted more than anything in the world at that moment to scoop Sammy up and throw his wings out to make a shield with Cas', already swept up in a soldier's trained reaction to a threat. Dean could see the shuddering black mass of Castiel's impenetrable feathers in the corners of his vision in both eyes. But he was frozen still as stone, barely able to feel Cas' hand clamped hard on his shoulder.

"Huh?" John had already sunk himself back in the books, and Dean rustled up enough feeling past his shock to be annoyed at the man's apparent indifference to his son's big milestone.

"We're celebratin' your son taking his first steps," Singer said, slowly and clearly. "Go to the store, buy a cake or somethin'."

John looked like he was going to argue, lifting his hands to gesture at the messy desktop, but Singer cut him off before he could get started.

"The books need a break from your ham fists anyway," Singer rumbled. "Some of these are old and fragile, they can't be slammed around and pulled on for too long or they'll get damaged. Go buy us a cake, I'll look after Sammy 'til you get back."

Dean watched with narrowed eyes and tensed shoulders as Singer ambled around the desk and hefted Sam up into his arms, getting a squirm and a squeaky "De!" out of the boy as he was suddenly and unexpectedly lifted off the floor. Dean clenched his fists. He didn't know what Singer _was_, so he couldn't just charge in sword raised and risk hurting Sam.

"Yeah, I know, it's all about 'Dee,' huh?" Bobby answered, hoisting Sam up and over his hip so they could look each other in the eye. "Don't you worry, I'm not takin' you away from Dee." He turned slightly, and Dean found himself staring eye to eye with the hunter again.

"Dean," Castiel said tersely. "I do not know what we're dealing with. He's not a demon, I cannot detect any trace of magic or angelic or hellish power-"

"I _know_, Cas," Dean growled through gritted teeth. "I don't know what the hell he is either, but we can't just grab Sam and run for it."

"It's true that he hasn't attempted to harm Sam in any of the times that they've been out of John Winchester's sight," Castiel muttered. "He has been caring of Sam…."

"I don't care what he _has_ been doing, he hurts one hair on my kid's head and he'll be picking up pieces of himself from all corners of the earth," Dean snapped.

"You need anything else while I'm out there?" John asked as he grabbed his leather jacket (not nearly as cool as _his_, Dean couldn't help thinking, just as he did every time) off a hook in the hallway, apparently resigned to going out.

"Whatever you want for dinner for the next few days," Singer said, and ruffled Sam's wispy hair. Sam giggled and batted at his hands, and Dean scowled. Sam usually only giggled for _him_. "I got everything Sam's gonna need for a while. Get some meat."

John grunted in reply, fished his keys out of his pocket, and opened the door.

"Oh, and Winchester," Singer called, hoisting Sam back up on his hip as the kid got bored of sitting still and tried to wriggle down.

"Yeah?" John said, one hand on the doorknob.

"You gotta remember," Singer said seriously, and gently placed a finger over Sam's lips to stop him grumbling for a second.

"What?" John asked, sounding a little nervous.

"Chocolate and lemon taste like shit together, so make sure you know what flavor of cake you got before you get the ice cream," Singer said seriously.

John rolled his eyes and let the door slam shut behind him.

Dean had followed them into the hallway, not about to let Sam out of his sight while held in that _thing_'_s_ grip. Castiel hovered at his shoulder, projecting a militant sort of calm that kept Dean from absolutely blowing up.

For about two seconds.

"You are NOT feeding MY KID any STORE-BOUGHT SUGAR-PACKED GODDAMNED CHOCOLATE CAKE!"

"De?" Sam piped up, twisting in Singer's arms.

"Don't worry, Sammy, I'm gonna get you back real quick," Dean promised him. He wished he could at least touch the hand Sam was stretching out to him, but he was wary about getting too close to Singer until they knew exactly how far the hunter's awareness of them went.

"Deee," Sam whined, twisting even farther so he could reach out with both arms.

"You want Dee, huh?" Singer asked Sam, looking intently back at Dean. "Well, let's see what we can do about that."

"Do? What do you mean, _do_?" Dean asked sharply.

Singer wandered back into the study and set Sam down at his pile of blocks, then went to what looked like a dirty chemistry set spread out over a few shelves and brought several pieces back to the desk.

"Watch Sam," Dean snapped to Cas. He didn't need to, really. The other angel had peeled away the second Singer set Sam down and knelt beside him, one wing held out and wrapped loosely around the boy. Sam leaned happily back into the warm, soft feathers, and offered Castiel a green block.

"That Dee there with you now, Sammy?" Singer muttered, hunting through his bookshelves and pulling out small leather bags and carved wooden boxes.

Sam looked at him, then up at Castiel, then back at Singer. "Gah," he said, and frowned.

Dean frowned, too. "What's up, Sammy? What's got you makin' that face?"

"Gah," Sam said again, and frowned harder. He made the sound again, this time in a frustrated shriek. "Gah!"

Dean stared down at him. From the corner of his eye, he could see Singer doing the same, hands paused on one of the pieces of equipment. "Sam," Dean said at last. "Sammy, are you trying to say 'Cas'?"

"Kah!" Sam repeated.

Suddenly not caring at all about Singer, Dean grinned and squatted down. Castiel had a strange expression on his face- made stranger because he didn't usually have _any _expression. Sort of half disbelieving, half completely thrilled, Dean guessed. He only knew because that's how he'd felt the first time Sammy really tried to say his name.

Then there was a _bang_ behind him that made Sammy screech, and Dean went back to caring about Singer.

The hunter had something boiling on one of the chemistry sets and was holding a bowl of something else that puffed out thick, black smoke.

"I charge you," Singer intoned in horribly accented Latin, "to reveal yourself, demon. I charge you to withdraw from the spirit of the child you have claimed. I charge you-"

The smoke had filled the room enough to drift its way over to their corner. Sam wrinkled up his nose at the acrid stench.

"I charge you-" Singer boomed out.

Sam started to cry.

"Oh, that is _so_ enough," Dean snarled. He cleared the smoke from the room, leaving Singer looking dumbfounded as his little spells and potions all suddenly vanished. Then he finally, finally scooped Sam up into his arms, cradling his boy into his chest, and clicked his fingers.

Singer stared at him- properly this time, now that Dean had made himself visible to this one human.

"Dude," Dean snapped. He pet Sam's hair, bouncing the kid gently even though he'd more or less stopped crying the second Dean picked him up. "What the fuck d'you think your doing? No- you know what, I don't even care. No more smoke or stinky shit. Sam doesn't like it."

"Huh," Singer said. His eyes moved slowly over to Castiel, and Dean realized his nestmate must have made himself visible, too. He'd put his wings away first, though. "Didn't realize there were two of you." He crossed his arms and stared intently back and forth between them for a long minute, clearly not missing the way Sammy snuggled happily into Dean's hold. Then the hunter shook his head and made his way around them, into the kitchen. "You two want a beer?" he called over his shoulder.

Dean and Castiel looked at each other. Dean shrugged, and followed into the kitchen. "Sure."

Castiel put a hand out to stop him, a warning look in his eyes. "Dean, I don't think-"

"Oh, relax," Dean scoffed. "His Latin was shit, his spell was stupid wicca stuff made up by a thirteen-year-old girl online, and he can only actually see us now because we _allowed_ him to see us. He's not dangerous, he's just one of those weird angel-sensitive people."

"There's nothing wrong with my Latin," Singer's brusque voice said from behind the refrigerator door. He emerged with three beers in one hand and one of Sam's little containers of snacks in the other. He gestured at the toddler held securely up to Dean's shoulder. "You think he wants milk or juice, in a cup or a bottle?"

Dean snorted. "What am I, the baby whisperer? I don't know, just give him both."

Singer nodded and set the beers and container on the table, then poured milk and apple juice into a bottle and a plastic cup. He set those on his side, and held his hands out.

Dean stared at him.

Singer made grabby motions with his fingers. "Gimme the kid."

Dean twisted away and squeezed Sam tighter, getting a squeak of protest. "No way. Mine."

Singer rolled his eyes. "I'm gonna make us lunch, and you have a lot of questions to answer. Gimme the kid."

"Why can't I hold him and talk? Or he can play on the floor while I talk. Or he can go sleep, he hasn't had a nap yet today. You don't have to hold him. You _can't_ hold him if you're making lunch," Dean added triumphantly, stroking a hand firmly up and down the back of Sam's head to settle him back down. Just because he didn't think Singer was a threat didn't mean he was going to give up Sammy-duty now he didn't have to.

Singer stared him down, and Dean was unnerved to find that it felt a little bit like getting pinned under the eye of Michael after dying a whole garrison's wings pink. "I don't want you gettin' distracted by those apple cheeks," he said severely. "And if I can shoot two ghosts at the same time I can sure as hell make lunch with one hand and hold a half-asleep kid with the other. So sit your ass down and drink your goddamned beer at the table like a civilized person, and gimme the kid."

Dean scowled, but he reluctantly passed Sam into Singer's waiting arms and slouched into a worn wooden chair, popping the beer cap off with a snap of his fingers. Castiel sat next to him, stony-faced, and didn't touch his beer.

"That one talk at all?" Singer asked, nodding to Cas as he pulled a bag of lunchmeat out of the fridge, Sam settled securely on his hip. The boy was nodding a little, one thumb sneaking up into his mouth as he rested his head on Singer's shoulder.

Dean shrugged and played with the label on his bottle. "If he's got somethin' to say, sure," he replied. "Get him started on bees and you can't shut him up."

"Bees, huh?" Singer lined up jars and bottles of condiments on the counter, and took a loaf of bread out of a drawer. "So, I guess the first question is: what the hell are you two?"

"We are angels of the Lord," Castiel answered gravely before Dean could come up with some kind of smart ass response. _He knows me too well_, Dean thought mournfully. "I am Castiel, a soldier of Heaven, and Dean is a guardian. Sam is his charge."

Singer snorted out a guffaw. "Angels, huh? What, fluffy clouds and harps and things?"

Castiel frowned, even as Dean groaned and tried to kick him into silence. "We are not musicians. I told you, I am a soldier of-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Singer interrupted, waving a hand to cut him off. He stopped slathering mayonnaise on bread and turned around, resting his free hip against the counter. "You wanna pull the other one?"

Castiel, predictably, looked completely confused. "Dean," he hissed helplessly. "What is it that he wants us to pull on?"

Dean slapped a hand over his eyes. "Look," he said to Singer, peeking up through his fingers. "What do you want us to do? We've both got wings. See?" He released the Grace that kept his wings invisible and intangible, and next to him, Castiel did the same. A moment later the room was almost suffocating, filled with a mix of shiny blue-black feathers and softer, tawny-brown ones.

"Yeah, you got wings, alright," Singer drawled. Somewhere through the mess of feathers Dean could hear Sam giggling sleepily. He always loved Dean's wings, so his angel flicked one wing slightly to tickle his cheek with the pinfeathers. "You wanna put those things away? You're getting feather dust in the sandwiches."

Both sets of wings faded away with soft rustles. Sam cooed like he was disappointed, but then he yawned and turned his face into Singer's collar. Singer smiled down at him, then furrowed his brow as Sam crinkled his forehead up and twisted his neck to rest the other way, and wriggled unhappily. "De," Sam mumbled.

"Look, just-" Dean reached out before he could stop himself. "He wants me, okay? He's used to sleeping with me and right now he wants to sleep."

Singer raised an eyebrow. "You don't think that sounds a little unhealthy and dependent?"

Dean glared. "Listen, man, do you want a toddler who's asleep and maybe a little psychologically atypical, or a toddler who's psycho-normal and screaming his head off because he'd tired and can't sleep?"

Singer hesitated for a second, then handed the kid over. Dean accepted his charge with relief, and settled Sam into lying down and relaxed over his broad forearms.

"So," Singer said, but he was watching Sam coo wetly around his own fingers and turn his face contentedly into the familiar smell of Dean's leather jacket. "What are you two, really?"

Dean sighed, and exchanged an exasperated look with Castiel. Well. _He _looked exasperated. Castiel just looked fascinated by his nearly-empty beer bottle. When had he started drinking that, anyway? "What do I have to do to convince you we're really angels?"

Singer slapped the sandwich halves together, dropped one on each of three plates he took out of a cupboard, and carried the plates to the table. He pushed two to Dean and Castiel, and noticed Cas' now-empty beer. "You want another?" he asked, gesturing at the bottle.

"Please," Castiel said, his voice as flat as ever, but he nodded eagerly.

Dean frowned at him. "What are you doing? You never drink."

Castiel fixed him with wide eyes. "I am finding it an…interesting experience." He smiled suddenly, and the sight was so bizarre that Dean actually scooted back a little, petting Sam's back to keep from disturbing him. "It bubbles, Dean."

"…Yeah, Cas, it bubbles," Dean agreed. He leaned across the table to Singer. "What the hell is this stuff?"

Singer shrugged. "A guy in town brews it himself. It's stronger than normal beer, but you don't taste it so much because it's got a lot of herbs or some shit in it."

Dean stared at Castiel's glazed face, intrigued. "Huh. Somethin' in there must work like pot for angels, 'cus it definitely takes more than a couple beers to get us drunk."

"You gonna quit this angel nonsense any time soon?" Singer asked irritably.

Dean raised his eyes to the heavens and prayed for patience. "Dude, seriously. What do I have to do to prove it to you? Water to wine? Chorus of heavenly cherubim?"

Singer snorted. "Angel Gabriel singing on high?"

Dean thought, and shrugged with a twist of his mouth. "Okay, sure."

Singer's eyes widened. "What d'you mean, sure?"

Dean didn't answer him, but tipped his head back and closed his eyes. "Gabriel we have heard on high, probably _getting_ high all over the plains-"

"Yo, Dean-o! Aw, Cassie's here too! What is this, a family reunion? Only the cool kids invited?"

Gabriel had popped himself into the room, already settled in a ridiculous golden throne at the head of the table. His pink plaid shirt was so bright that even Dean could tell it clashed horribly with the red seat cushions on the throne. Castiel blinked slowly at him, then raised an unsteady finger.

"You," he slurred. "You went…gone." Cas giggled, and motioned his hands like an explosion. "Poof!" Then he picked up his sandwich and started gnawing.

Gabriel raised an eyebrow at Dean. "Is he-"

"Drunk as a skunk? Oh, yes. I don't know how, I guess there's somethin' in this beer Singer gets from a guy in town."

"Huh." Gabriel looked curiously around, taking in the old kitchen appliances, the stacks of books on every flat surface, and the human staring open mouthed at him.

Gabriel stared back for a minute, then leaned over to whisper in Dean's ear. "Dean-o, is it just me or is the old guy staring at us?"

"Singer _knows_ shit," Dean told him. "I don't really know what his thing is yet, but I let him see all of us, I figured it was easier that way instead of makin' everybody pop in and out of the human visual range."

"Why, you planning on getting more of the family in here? 'Cus I gotta tell you, buddy, I'm not actually looking for a _real_ reunion right now."

"Both of you, shut up a minute," Singer snapped.

Dean and Gabriel's jaws shut with an audible click.

"So, you're sayin' you're angels," Singer said, pointing back and forth between the two of them. He ignored Castiel, now swaying slightly in his seat. "And this is really the archangel Gabriel, and _he's_ a soldier of Heaven, which exists, and you're Sam's guardian angel."

"Oh, how is my little Sammykins?" Gabriel asked suddenly, craning his neck over Dean's shoulder to get a look at the sleeping boy. "Aw, that's just precious."

Dean twisted defensively away. "Don't wake him up. Or feed him anything." He narrowed a stern glare at Singer and nodded his head toward Gabriel. "If he ever shows up on his own, don't let him feed Sam anything. He thinks all kids should eat is candy and cake."

"Speaking of," Singer said, looking suddenly alarmed. "John could be back pretty soon. You gonna stick around?"

"Of course," Dean, Gabriel, and Castiel said at once. They looked at each other. Dean and Gabriel did, anyway- Cas just went cross-eyed.

"I so need to find out what's in that beer," Gabriel muttered, and reached out with two fingers to poke Castiel in the forehead.

Cas shook his head violently and gave a full-body shudder. "That was unpleasant," he stated, and Dean had known him long enough to hear the note of pure confusion in his forcibly-sobered voice.

"I wanna hear all about this later, but we don't have time to deal with alcoholic magical beings right now," Singer cut in. He rested his arms on the table on either side of his untouched sandwich, and glared hard at Dean. "You're tellin' me a lot of stuff that I'm willing to believe, only because you got past all my wards and you're all worried about takin' care of a little kid, which doesn't sound all that evil to me. But I'm not lettin' you alone with Sam until I'm completely sure I can trust you with him."

Dean's wings _burst_ out before he could think. Gabriel and Castiel both muttered something under their breath and scooted their chairs back.

"How _dare_ you," Dean hissed, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble in his chest. "Sam is _mine_. He was given to me at the Beginning. I had thousands of charges to guard before he was born but _his_ soul has been wrapped up in my Grace since the very _start_ of this world. His soul is brighter and more beautiful than anything your stupid human mind could ever imagine and he is _mine_ to protect and guard for the rest of his life, and _mine_ to spend eternity with in Heaven. You and anyone else are _not_ gonna stand in my way, or I swear to Dad you're all gonna die trying."

Dean hadn't realized he'd stood up or shifted Sam to clutch him against his chest until, in the deafening silence, he felt tiny fingers curl against his t-shirt and heard a soft, "De?"

"It's okay, Sammy," he murmured, and swept his wings in around the front of himself so that Sam was completely hidden away in the brown feathers. "You're okay, I'm not mad. Go back to sleep, baby boy." He kissed the top of Sam's head, and shifted his wings down just enough that he could see over the tops to gauge the reaction of the rest of the room.

The man and two angels all stared back at him. Finally, Gabriel sighed and snapped up a handful of m&ms, tossing them up and catching them in his mouth.

"Overreact, much? Geez," the archangel muttered around a mouthful of chocolate. "Anger management, Hesedinel. Think about it."

"He is always very protective of Sam," Castiel whispered to Gabriel.

"Shut up. And don't call me that," Dean snapped.

"Hesedinel? Is that your name?" Singer asked curiously. "I was wonderin' why you were calling yourself Dean. Doesn't sound very angelic."

"Oh, you shut up too. And I'm serious, man," Dean said warningly. "Sam's mine, okay? Any time I want I can snap my fingers and you and John Winchester will never see him again. I don't wanna do that because I don't want to attract attention, but I will."

"Alright, alright." Singer put his hands up in surrender, leaning back in his chair with a wooden creak. "I get it, kid's yours. You don't have to zap him off somewhere strange, though. If you have problems with John you can always bring him here."

Dean eyed him suspiciously, but Singer's face was open and serious, so he nodded. "Yeah. That's kinda what I was hoping for, before you went all psychic on me."

Singer rolled his eyes. "Not psychic, just havin' eyes and ears. Sam didn't magically stop rollin' off the edge of the sofa, did he? And no kid his age babbles the same syllable on coincidence. He was callin' out to _somebody_, the way he kept sayin' 'De, De, De'. Anyway, it doesn't take a psychic to feel some kind of presence comin' off you when you're feelin' protective or excited. I figure you were either mad at John or wary of me when you all first pulled up, huh?"

Dean nodded again, twining his fingers idly in the long strands of hair at Sam's neck.

"And it felt like you damn near blew the electricity when Sam got his first few steps in- I'm assuming he was takin' those steps towards you," Singer continued.

Dean couldn't help grinning. "Sure was, me 'n Cas," he said.

"What the hell! Sammy took his first steps and that _wasn't_ the first thing you told me?" Gabriel exclaimed, sounding outraged.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry, Gabe. Like, six whole real steps though!" Dean told him, happy enough to forget Singer for a second and brag about his awesome Sam. "He was playin' on the other side of the room from me and I guess he wanted to come over so he got himself upright and, like, boom! Walk walk walk!" His wings rustled excitedly.

"We got more important things goin' on than you having a mommy-moment, boy," Signer interrupted, and ignored Dean's indignant sputtering about being called _boy_ by someone about a thousandth of his age. "How did an archangel get involved with a guardian angel, anyway? I'm assuming there are loads of guardian angels, but there's only supposed to be four of you." He nodded at Gabriel, who preened happily under the attention and opened his mouth to start what would probably end up being a totally untrue, totally inappropriate-for-child-ears story.

"Don't believe a word he tells you," Dean warned Singer. "It was coincidence, mostly. And Sam's cute. We got time for the story before John gets back?"

Singer shrugged. "He can't see any of you, can he? It's just me?"

"Should be."

"Okay then, we're fine. I think it should stay that way, though. John seems like he sees things in either black or white; angels aren't human, and you're standin' in between him and his kid, so I don't know what he'd try to do to you," Singer told him. Dean nodded.

"Yeah, Cas and I already agreed on that. Oh, hey, Gabe, Sammy started trying to say Cas' name earlier!"

"'Cas' is not my name," Castiel muttered petulantly. He looked pleased anyway, though, and Dean figured he just complained on principle.

"Seriously? Aw, you guys! That's so cute!" Gabriel clasped his hands in front of his chest and batted his eyelashes at Sam, drooling and snuffling as he slept on Dean's shoulder. "He's finally saying mommy and daddy, that's adorable. But which one's-"

Dean snapped his fingers and Gabriel's mouth was full of an enormous chocolate cream cake. He'd learned a long time ago that this was about the only sure-fire way of shutting Gabe up- any other method Gabriel would just undo himself, but he'd never let chocolate cake go to waste, which meant he'd have to eat his way free.

"Right," Dean said, ignoring Castiel's disapproving look (whatever, Cas was still a soldier and obsessed with hierarchy but Dean definitely wasn't) and settling Sam more comfortably in his arms. "So here's how Gabriel got in on all this."

* * *

p.s. I put a poll up on my profile about the potential future of slash pairings in this story. Let me know what you think if you get a chance!


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